


Bedtime Spells

by MemoryCrow



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Charms, Dark, Freeform, Gen, Magic, Not a Story, Nursery Rhyme, Spells & Enchantments, Use Your Words, blood and roses, light - Freeform, notions and potions, scent and texture, stones and bones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 14:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: Just a little free association. Because.





	Bedtime Spells

_** Rumplestiltskin ** _

Soft, pulpy pages of old books in crumbling, mildew-touched leather binding, wound in fraying twine.

The scent and feel of spun wool. Tobacco scented fingers. Fingerprints of lanolin.

An elusive scent of honey.

The desperately green and reaching scent of the earth as it awaits rain, the air soft with thoughts of water.

A pregnant swell of a far-off storm; the same swell, pungent with camphor and phosphorescence, of magic.

It waits.

A sky the color of a bruise.

A handful of small, polished and tumbled stones. Moonstone, hematite, obsidian.

A rough stone picked up from the ground, a clean hole going straight through.

A black and white feather. The tawny-striped tailfeather of a wren. The trill of a screech owl.

A creaking of wooden things; spinning wheel, rocking chair, heavy door. The sounds of a haunted house.

Light spilling through stained glass to pool in a darkened room. Liquid color on dark wood.

Soft, medicinal scents of rosemary and lavender. Sharp scent of boot-polish, a leather strap.

Lemon oil on old wood. Twig-broom on stone.

Warmth of fingers, hands callused and rough, that smell of dusty straw and then the cooler scent of gold.

A magpie collection of things that sparkle and shine.

A hot scent of whiskey.

A shrinking, alarming stink of fear, transformed into the yawn of a cave, a descent into darkness. A cold burst of power and a hot rush of blood.

_** Killian ** _

The scent of old, well-worn and soft leather.

Sweet alcohol, sugary perfumes.

Salt air; an unflagging wind when the sun is high and hot.

The tracks and the feverish, faintly rank scent of a lone wolf, skinny and ragged, marking territory.

Old, flaking blood. The scent of metal, steel; warmed with handling.

A murder of crows in a long path in a muted, blue sky.

Anemones, Geraniums, Nicotiana, Datura, Belladonna. (It is a charm.)

Busy ports, busy cities. Mingling scents, both alluring and foul. Sea air and the rot of fish, of garbage. Fried dough and roasting, spiced meat.

Black smoke and high, sharp notes of wine and perfume, carried on a breeze.

Noise, colors, bodies; washed and unwashed.

Bordello scents of sex, amaretto, apple brandy. A randy, bawdy scent of spicy, earthy patchouli and sweet dragon’s blood.

A musk perfume, glittery on skin. It twinkles at wrists and jaw.

Coffee and black tea. Hot peppers and sticky fruit, the sting of the rind to the soft skin around the lips.

An ever-present ghost within one’s own body. The flexing, the emptiness and ache felt in an absent hand. Those things it seeks to hold and touch.

Voluptuous darkness touched with body heat. A heartbeat slowed or quickened with narcotics.

Forgotten religion; the scent of fresh flowers and burning resin, sacrificial.

A heart, a body squeezed; taut and breathless, reddened with slaps and artful blows.

Rapture. A rhapsody of red.

_**The Spell** _

(Rumplestiltskin’s list of ingredients)

Green, glass bottles, perhaps nine.

The paw print of a cat, filled with soft water.

The stunted and raw revenge of the 13th faerie. The splintered and dry twigs she gnawed.

A bracelet of juniper berries and dried clove blossoms.

A black hen.

A white bear.

A love potion of apples, roses and lemon.

A house covered in the webbing of a Golden Silk Spider. ( _Nephila Clavipes_ , O, lover of spinning!)

A green ceramic cup with a red handle; a black story of tea-leaves, within.

Run along and fetch these things, dearie. Oh, and get some more straw… the magic is bound with threads of gold. Don’t be churlish. Mind the bear.

**THE END**


End file.
